


The Morphing of the Muse

by Krylenta



Series: A Poet's Wanderings [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Introspection, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-12-28 04:55:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krylenta/pseuds/Krylenta
Summary: A collection of poetry, all original works. Tags for individual pieces will be included in the forenotes of the applicable chapter if needed.





	1. Refutation (Redux Remix)

I will pervade you – if you let me

Let me in

Put your tv show away, it will chase me away

Watch what you do lest you break me

Do you want to? It’s normal.

Reading a book disrupts me

I’m used to it though

Why can’t you just enjoy me as I am?

Is it truly so difficult?

Most people can’t stand me

They don’t even try

I can only be heard if you listen

Then and only then

Do you have the patience?

Can you spare me even a minute?

Could you try?

Would you (do it) if I dare you?

I swell with the evening shadows

And grow loudest when stars are the only light

I fade with the sunrise

And vanish with the cocks as they crow

I follow where you go if you need me

Not that you ever have

(nor do you ever want to)

I will pervade you – if you let me

Let me in

If you put your songs away and be still

I’ll show myself if you chill

Be still and listen

I am only heard when I’m not broken.

Do you want to?

Want to break me?

Keep me broken?

I don’t want to be.

Can you hear me yet?


	2. Hate Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning Tags: self hate / mirror hate

“I hate you”

The words hang there

Unvoiced

Sharp all the same

“You ruined me”

Comes across just as clear

Lips tightly closed

Eyes open

Crooked fingers

Scar covered arms

Ringing ears in high pitch

Knees that grate

Nerves that pinch

Busted eyebrow, split lip – only thin scars now

Broken elbows, scraped ankles

Scar marked hands

“Look at me”

Demanding, unyielding

Eyes shut

I can’t

“I should feel _young!_”

I feel old

“I know” hangs

Heavy on my lips

“I should look older”

I don’t remains unsaid

It’s the only grace given to me

My mirror


	3. Destination Unknown

It’s a slow, slow beginning.

Sluggish – like a freight train,

Off the tracks, in the deep,

Deep water. Chilled atmosphere,

A weight dragging it down.

Holding the train up.

Holding so the tracks move,

Destination unknown.

The water hugs the train,

Wholly encompassing, a force,

Slow and dense. The train moves,

Pistons firing, smoke billowing,

Black ink in the water,

The train sinks.

The seabed is distant.

A faint dream the train recalls,

Known and unknown to the train.

The freight train presses forward,

Seeking tracks, wheels tread the water,

Destination unknown as it sinks.

The freight train sinks,

Sluggish in the frigid embrace,

The tracks loom into sight.

The train lands nigh, missing the tracks,

Ploughs through the sand seaweed,

A plume of debris growing forward.

The train strains under the tons,

Water bearing down, the train slinks away.

Alertness, constraints – denied,

Freedom of dreams pursued.

Movement unhurried, snailesque on the seabed.

A disparate trail left behind

The destination unknown


	4. Written

These are the words that are written  
Ink on a white-faced page  
Forever imprinted, left to time and age  
  
These are the words that are written  
Once on a surface a pristine white  
They tell a story, but shed no light  
  
These are the words that are written  
Hidden in the folds of the pages,   
Some left exposed, asking "Can you see me?"  
  
These are the words that are written  
Sprawled across the design, a deluge  
Marring and scarring, unable to shine  
  
These are the words that are written  
Inky letters peeking from behind each fold  
Some plain exposed, daring to be bold  
  
These are the words that are written  
The story told in fragments, faded  
and bleeding, a trace shown through  
  
These are the words that are written  
Ink on the face of the page  
A design in their own right  
  
These are the words that are written

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this would have looked better written in a little origami book. (Nevermind the fact that I can't write that small.)


	5. Wants a Field

Service to power I would Rule the world   
Ne'r would that bore That was the plan   
Lore Stan   
This was a dream Not that it worked   
Heaven on an escalator Dispatched to Hell in a handcart   
Up to shore Went the plan   
Fiendish be to It'll be simple   
Truth Lies   
All Truth All Lies   
Alive woman in A dead man I am   
Stillness Walking   
A statuette whole Asunder, my soul   
Cast'd as stone composite Shattered among the winds   
Service to Power? I would Rule the world?   
Yes. No.   
Yes, indeed No, thank you   
I'll go happily You do it if you   
I can't not take it You want it so bad   
Therefore I want I want of it   
Aught Naught 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatted with creative use of spacing and centering. I've formatted it three times based on where it was typed.  
This started one poem that morphed into having two sides. I then combined them.


	6. White Picture 10

Ink washed tiles  
Once pristine – white  
Stained, speckled, spotted  
Dressed in watered ashes  
Lie on a bed  
9B graphite grout  
Formed in sleek rows,  
Immaculate columns  
Recessed into the grout  
Ropey lines of ink – dare  
Dare to consume  
The ink washed tiles  
Specked, spotted, stained,  
Never to be clean.


	7. Bus

Life is like riding on the bus.  
Backwards.  
What, you thought you were driving it?  
You've never even seen out the front window, let alone them.  
All you can do is stare out the windows,  
The back windows, the side windows,  
But only if keep you head faced  
away from the front.

Some close their eyes,  
Others stare, eyes wide -  
Watching the trail as it's forged.  
There is the present, no hope for a future  
Only the trail of the past that you watch fly by as you go.  
The bricks and mortar blurry, the signs gone to quick to read.

You don't know where you are on the bus  
Stepping forward goes nowhere, stepping back brings you to where you were before.  
The population of the bus is you.

Just you.

Where is everyone else?  
Where is the driver?  
Was there ever a driver?  
Get off the bus.

The bus is full, you sit there  
Backwards, watching the world speed by  
A fleeting thought you were off it once  
And now you can't fathom knowing what happens if you face front.  
Get off the bus.  
Get off the bus.

  
Get

  
Off

  
The

  
Bus


	8. On the Bus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bus ride to remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might get edited again.

You are riding on the bus. 

Backwards.

What, you thought you were driving it?

You've never even seen out the front window, let alone them. 

All you can do is stare out the windows,

The back windows, the side windows,

But only if keep you head faced away from the front. 

Some close their eyes,

Others stare, eyes wide -

Watching the trail as it's forged. 

There is the present, there is the past

(no hope for a future)

Only the trail of the past that you watch fly by as you go. 

The bricks and mortar are blurry, the signs gone too quick to read. 

You don't know where you are on the bus

Stepping forward goes nowhere, stepping back

Stepping back brings you to where you were before. 

You don’t know who you are

The population of the bus is you. 

Just you.

Where is everyone else?

Where is the driver?

Was there ever a driver?

Get off the bus.

The bus is full, you sit there

Backwards - watching the world speed by

A fleeting thought you were off it once

That you could say, ‘I am…’ with confidence

A half a moment of freedom…

And now you can't fathom knowing

Knowing what happens if you face front.

Knowing who you are

Get off the bus.

Get off the bus.

Get

Off

The bus

Don’t you want to know?


End file.
